


Fruit of the Giving Tree

by slaughtermom



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Slow Burn, angst everywhere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 14:16:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7895857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slaughtermom/pseuds/slaughtermom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“A love story is not about those who lost their heart but about those who find that sullen inhabitant who,<br/>when it is stumbled upon, means the body can fool no one, can fool nothing—not the wisdom of sleep or<br/>the habit of social graces. It is a consuming of oneself and the past.”<br/>―  The English Patient</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fruit of the Giving Tree

There were problems as soon as the plane took off from Gibraltar. Lena, steady as she was behind the wheel of the plane, asked twice from someone else to take over controls. Lunch and stomach acid lining the trashcan from her poor nerves at going back to the place Mondatta lost his life. Genji was hardly any better, pacing the length of the deck. Hands clenching and unclenching rhythmically as they brought forth the weapons imbedded under steel.

Angela stared at the plans in front of her. She knew, in that vague catching headlines as you stand in line at the coffee shop way, about the Junker duo terrorizing England. They’d stolen the crown jewels, stolen ice cream from an Omnic run truck… even taken it upon themselves to blow up a building weeks ago, killing a business man inside. 

Athena had dug up more. Jamison Fawkes with a list of prosthetics and rumors of something found in the destroyed Omnium. He was tall, lanky by the depictions of him, and most of the time vaguely on fire. His partner was Mako Rutledge. Reported in the media as a remorseless killer and brute, his history (patched together by good technology and snooping) revealed a resistance fighter with the Outback Liberation Front. One of those poor souls pushed off their land and pushed back only to destroy it and radiate nearly the whole of Australia. 

Supposedly he was masked to hide his gruesomeness. Or at least that’s what the news said. The good doctor doubted it, considering the design of said mask. More likely he using a respirator and med mist. Scar tissue likely taking away his ability to breathe easy without.    

Manicured hands scrubbed over tired features as she made sense of the plan. Talon masquerading as Human rights activists had teamed up with duo of Junkers. An EMP bomb on a truck somewhere in King’s Row headed to the underground refuge Omnics had taken. A fatal blow the website they’d hacked had said. Taking back what’s ours. Scrapping scrap metal. 

A fearful thing, the hate spewed behind screens. More so at the thought of prosthetics and artificial organs humans relied on failing. It was… it was as poorly thought out as melting a reactor and hoping the radiation would magically dissipate. 

                                                                          _Idiots, the lot of them._

It was a rough landing. Nose dipping hard and up as it settled on top of one of the few safe havens left to Overwatch vigilantes. They’d have to sneak, the ones of them that could blend with civilians, into the rally being held. Get eyes on the Junkers and follow them. 

Call in backup after the bomb was spotted and hope beyond hope they could leave the foggy streets of London without bloodshed or Omnics destroyed. 

* * *

“You ready doc?” McCree’s voice crackled in her ear. Good tech barely outpacing whatever scramblers were put into place to stop unwanted recordings or Omnics from entering the rally. Blue eyes scanned the crowd, hoping to pick out that ridiculous hat the American wore. No such luck.

“I’m getting into position now. No sign of birds or rodents yet.” 

“Keep your eyes open. Sooner we find them, sooner this mess is over.” 

A light beamed on the makeshift stage. The stumbling run and flaming hair peaking over heads roughly ten feet over for the loud yell of the Junker cackled out from mike in hand. 

“Oi oi, ain’t no time for chit chat.” He sounded with jubilance unbefitting someone about to wipe out a population. “As my mate always says, no job to big or score too small.” 

“Jesse, Jesse” Angela repeated as the static in ear worsened to near unbearable levels. Wincing she reached to pull the small bug from ear. Were they on to them? Was this mission over? Had they failed already? 

“It’s the emitters!” Rough English accent yelled from her elbow. Grinning face and that white paint that made photography nothing but a blank mask reflected back spoke with all the flavor of a native. “Burnt up my Comm a few weeks ago. Ruddy Omnic bastards, going to get the price for it out their scrap.” 

“I’m sorry. It’s…” Mein Gott she was going to end up dead here. “It’s the Omnics fault. If they weren’t listening in, wouldn’t have this problem.” 

“Damn right the bloody shits!” 

Her newfound ‘friend’ grabbed Angela’s sweaty hand, chatting all the while about the evils of robotics. A sisterhood found in shared hate (rather shared lies) as she led her through the ruckus to the floating truck with its load of destruction. Laughing as the blonde pulled back, balking at climbing up.  

“Names Joyce but you can call me Scrap.” She called over shoulder. “Come on. I talked to Junkrat. He said roadies are always good in his book. We can ride on the truck and watch those bastards die up close.”

~~Shit. Shit. Shit.~~

“Sounds good.” 

* * *

Mako didn’t like this. When they’d taken the job, it’d been simple. Drive the truck. Detonate the EMP. Leave. No crowds. No speeches. Nothing but putting one on the Omnics. Massive shoulders rolled uncomfortably under their tire pauldrons. Too much like those days before the Outback turned wasteland. People with shining faces and makeshift weapons as they stormed the Omnium with the hope of taking back land the cowards in government gave away. 

How many of them had stood and beat on bloody doors. He’d been at the head of it. The biker and mechanic… real mechanic not one of them automated shits that his job had been outsourced to. They’d torn the building down. Torn every robot found into pieces and…

His massive hand reached out, black painted nails twisting the side view mirror to show his cargo load and the Junker he was going to make mint protecting. Better. Much better than seeing the mask that covered his face. Damn the Omnics. Damn the government that let them be built. Damn the company that built them. 

**“…”**

What the hell was going on back there? Mako blinked squinting as the mirror played out a couple of ... why were they picking up women when they should be on the way to the sewers. Irritated he shifted the truck into gear. A steady hum powering the magnetic plates that served as hovers. It was nothing compared to the tires of last century, but whoever was funding this little opt had money to spare. 

    **“… Let’s go”**

Sooner this is over, sooner they can go on to the next. Maybe even find a buyer for the ‘treasure’ Jamison found in the Omnium. 


End file.
